To Serve
by Endgegner07
Summary: Not all is as well at home as it seems when you are far away in America. AU to "His Last Bow". Completed.
1. December 1912 to June 1914

_This is an alternate take on "His Last Bow". The events of this chapter takes place between 1912 (some months after Holmes left to work as a spy for Mycroft , using the alias "Altamont") and the end of his work as a spy, before his return. The dates are purely fictional (well besides_ _1912 and 1914). I do not own anything beside the idea. I hope you enjoy!_

_I'm sorry if the formatting is strange, but the document manager keeps making changes to it._

**December 1912**

M.

Believe to have found a lead. Will need to travel to Buffalo. Hope all is well with W.  
Inform him of my good health, lest he worries.

A

_The doctor was making his rounds. The weather was vile. Soon would be the anniversary of his wife's death. His friend was far away. He was alone._

A.

Do not get caught. Hope you disguised accent. All well with W. Inform me of your findings as soon as you are able. Do not forget, it is vital for England. It is not one of your "games".

M

_The doctor laid roses at the base of the gravestone. Ice would soon cover the petals, conserving their beauty in ice, as her's was in death._  
_He coughed in the cold air. It had started in November, a couple of months after his friend had left. The doctor felt some pain in his chest. He decided to rest the next day. His locum would take the practice, knowing the significance of today and believing the doctor needed time for himself._

**April 1913**

M.

Have joined Irish secret society. Believe it will come in handy as mission progresses. Have heard the name Von Bork mentioned. Will investigate.  
Have not heard of W in your wires lately. Hope you are not doing this purposefully.

A

_His locum has told him he is being stubborn and should get rest. At last, he took a week's leave. The weather has been vile for the last couple of months. The doctor eagerly awaited news of his friend in America. The brother was not always forthcoming and he did not want to press this quite formidable man._  
_He was told that his friend was doing well, "as expected". The brother told him that he need not know more than that._

A.

There are no news because there is nothing to tell. Concentrate on your mission. Will see what information I can get about Von Bork.

M

_The doctor had lost weight in the last few weeks. His friends told him that he is working too hard for a man of his age. He had also become quite more irritable than he used to be and strove to overcome this._  
_Another coughing spell wracked his frame. The pain in his chest lingered for a while. But it was not pneumonia, thank heavens._

**October 1913**

M.

Have caused serious trouble in Skibbareen. Constables are fools. Remind me of Scotland Yard. No news of W for six months, one week and three days. How is he? Tell me something, or I will contact him myself. Also inform him that I am making progress.  
Do not make a repeat of 1891. Have still not forgiven you for this, as you know.  
Will try to get Von Bork's attention next.

A

_No, it had not been pneumonia. It was worse, he believed. And he hoped he was wrong._

A.

I will not apologise for what I did back then. It was necessary for England as you should know. Do not worry about W. Will inform him of your continued well being. More important issues need your attention.  
Von Bork will be your new target. Gain his trust.

M

_A specialist confirmed his suspicions. He hoped he had not infected anyone in the last months. He made arrangements for his locum to take over his practice._  
_He wondered how his friend was, if he was well. If he though of him sometimes or if the mission demanded all of his attentions._  
_To get a hold of his friend's brother has become all but impossible in the last months._  
_It was impossible now._

**June 1914**

M.

Will be back in England in two months at the latest. Place and time of meeting will have to be arranged via wire. At the danger of being called a sentimentalist, I am glad to be back on English soil soon.  
How is W faring? Has he been able to look after the cottage from time to time? Am looking forward to seeing my biographer as well. Been too long, but at least the mission was successful.

SH

_He wondered what Holmes was doing. It had been near to two years now, since he last had seen him. He wondered if Holmes knew about his condition, and if he cared if he did know._  
_He could not see Mycroft Holmes sending him these information. Surely the older of the brothers would see news like this as unnecessary distraction._  
_A wry smile touched his lips._  
_Would they meet again in this world? __I__t seemed so unlikely. He had already survived this longer than he had anticipated._  
_How long could he go on?_  
_His mind provided him with the answer. _  
As long as necessary. As long as possible.  
_They had promised each other to still be there when the mission was over. Always the soldier, he honoured that oath and lived to the best of his abilities._

S.

Contact me first.  
The doctor is busy with other matters at the moment. I will fill you in when you have returned to England. Sadly, he hasn't been able to look after the cottage in the past months. I have seen to it that it is kept in good condition.

MH

_There was no cure for what ailed him. _

tbc


	2. 1st August, 1914

**1st August, 1914**

A tall, gaunt man sporting a rather unbecoming goatee and one Mycroft Holmes were discussing the former's almost completed mission. After two years, the conclusion was drawing nearer than ever. The mission should prove to be a compete success.

"You did excellent work overseas, Sherlock," said Mycroft, praising the man who had sacrificed two years for the future of England.

Sherlock Holmes was fairly enthusiastic at the prospect of wrapping up the mission and reuniting with his dearest friend. "Now, all I need to do is wire Watson tomorrow, to ask him to help me-"

Holmes noticed his elder brother jerking slightly at the mention of Watson. Barely noticeable to anyone else's eyes. To him it was glaringly obvious. And not something that was foreign. Mycroft had looked much the same at the conclusion of his missions in 1894.

A sense of dread filled him. He saw a spark of contrition in his brother's eyes. Adding to the dread he felt were anger and disappointment. And suspicion.

Mycroft had not told Watson of his survival once both had been relatively save from the colonel after the Reichenbach disaster. He had insisted that he would reject any further missions if Watson would be kept in the dark ever again.

But Mycroft had conveyed to him in their correspondence that Watson had been kept informed. Not well informed by any means, but assured of his own good health...

…but Mycroft had also been glaringly reticent about the doctor, constantly reminding him to keep his mind on the mission at hand.

"You have not told me anything specific about Watson, not even when I asked explictly for information concerning his well being. You have avoided my gaze when I mentioned contacting him just now. You sat back ever so slightly into your chair, subconsciously creating more of a distance even though your desk is between us. This leads me to believe that you have kept more from me than I thought, considering my adamant demands concerning information about Watson. You assured me that there was nothing to tell. Obviously - and don't pretend that this is not the case - you have mislead me, knowing my opinion of your behavior twenty years ago. It is barely noticeable, but the guilt - yes guilt - in your eyes betray you, brother.

"What is it that you have kept from me?" the last question was asked with a calmness Holmes did not feel.

Mycroft recognised the accuracy of his brother's deductions. If he wanted him to cooperate further - and his cooperation was still required - he had to answer. But maybe he did not need to disclose anything immediately. The chances were slim, but existent.

"It will not be possible for Doctor Watson to aid you in the completion of your mission."

"Why?" this one word resembled a demand rather than a question. Holmes wished to know more, even as he feared the answer. It was the way his mind functioned, craving information no matter the cost.

Mycroft considered not answering, knowing he had to eventually.

"He is…indisposed."

"In what way? Do come out with it, Mycroft," he shot his brother a look that, had it been a weapon, would have cut the larger man in half.

Mycroft drew himself up straight in his chair, or as straight as a man with his considerable bulk was able to. In a way, he had wanted to spare his brother, but since he was back home in England it was impossible to keep this from him.

"Dr. Watson has contracted an illness that leaves him unable to be of any help to you."

Holmes needed to know more, even as dread filled him. Since Mycroft had not been forthcoming in the two years previous, it could not have been a recent development. Meaning that this illness had been present for some amount of time. He choose to ask another question.

He feared to know what illness had befallen his dear friend.

"Will he be regaining his health in a foreseeable amount of time?"

His dread proved to be valid.

"No," the answer of his brother felt more like the blow of a heavyweight champion neatly hitting his solar plexus.

An illness, having been contracted quite some time before his return, leaving Watson unable to be of any help to him. Not an injury, an illness. Watson was a doctor and had still been practicing when he had left. Illness due to infection was a likely possibility.

And it had lasted for some time, certainly during the larger part of his mission overseas. And Watson would not improve.

Holmes was no fool. He looked beseechingly at his brother, for once unashamed of showing his desperate wish to be wrong, as he had so often been when they had been but youngsters and deduction had merely been a game to pass the time.

"Tell me, Mycroft."

"He has been diagnosed with tuberculosis, as I believe you have been suspecting."

Sherlock Holmes felt his whole world crumble to dust around him.

tbc


	3. 1st August,1914 and 3rd August, 1914

"How could you _not_ have told me?" Holmes was outraged. He was standing, leaning halfway over the desk separating him from his brother who had also stood up.

"It would have been too disctracting for you! We could not risk you abandoning a mission vital for England and quite possibly vital for the future of the _world!_" Mycroft's voice was resonating in the office.

Holmes was feeling a mixture of unaccustomed fear, helplessness and rage. He repeated himself, "How could you not have told me? Have you told _him_ that I was well and unharmed when I asked you to? Or have you kept that information from him as you did in 1891?" _Did you lie to me again…?_

The man in question sat back down into his chair, watery eyes hinting at the irritation he felt. Mycroft was well aware of what he owed Dr. Watson in terms of courtesy after everything the man had done for Sherlock. His brother had been very vocal about this matter after he had neglected to inform the doctor of Holmes's survival after Reichenbach.

But he had also told Sherlock that he was prepared to repeat this, if it was for the benefit of the Empire. Dr. Watson was a former soldier and would certainly agree that the welfare of the many was more important than an individal fate, no matter how tragic. He was convinced of this. But his brother was no soldier. In hindsight, this confrontation had been unavoidable.

"I have told him what he needed to know. That you lived," he sighed. Holmes's nostrils flared, "You did not tell him when I would return," he stated.

"No," Mycroft agreed.

Holmes also sat back into his chair, rubbing his aching eyes. He had not slept much during the journey to home.

He had to see Watson. See for himself just how far the illness had progressed. Fate seemed to mock him, separating them when Watson needed him the most. Fate and his confounded brother. The mission was vital for England, he agreed and it would soon be complete. But at what cost?

"Where is he? In what hospital is he? _How_ is he," Holmes demanded.

Mycroft knew that any attempt to steer the 'conversation' back towards discussing the mission would be futile.

"Dr. Watson is as well as can be expected. You will apprehend Von Bork tomorrow. One of our best spies, using the alias "Martha", has prepared everything. Since it is late, you should rest yourself to avoid any…mishaps in the conclusion of this mission. After you have done so, you are free to do as you like," he pointed a rather podgy finger at his brother, "But not until then, I am warning you, brother."

He watched as Sherlock stormed out of the door. Then he rang for a cup of strong tea.

**3rd August, 1914**

The sanatorium resembled a very, _very_ large cottage. It was a place for those who were ill for an abnormal amount of time and those fated to leave this world and go on to the next.  
It was not a sanatorium for the poor which were little better than prisions. This one was clean and the interiors sunlit.

As Holmes approached the entrance, he was lost in thought. Von Bork's apprehension had been as easy as child's play. One of Mycroft's agents had aided him, but he had sorely missed his Boswell. He would never trust anyone as much as he trusted his friend.

The stay in the sanatorium must have been costly, but - as Holmes knew - Watson had made a handsome sum of money from his fee as a writer and his last and very successful practice. He assumed that the practice had been sold for a large sum, as Watson would of course have been unable to continue caring for his patients.

The doctor in charge of his friend's treatment was opposed to his visit, citing the risk for infection, strain on the patient and a myriad of other reasons that were valid but unimportant to Holmes.  
He simply did not care about the risk to his own person. At last the doctor gave up and left.

Holmes opened the door to find Watson reading. He was sitting proped up in his bed, the bankets drawn up around his lap, clad in one of those new-fashioned pyjamas and a dressing gown.

He looked terribly strained, tired and thin. Watson's laboured breathing was clearly audible in the small room. Holmes's heart sank when he saw his friend. He had been expecting this, knowing what he did of the wretched disease but being confronted with the mortality of a man who had always been steadfast and strong was…more terrible than he could have imagined.

Had Watson felt this way when he had feigned a deadly ailment in the Culverton Smith case?

Watson looked up, his eyes doubling in size in a split second, mouth opening slightly. He did not stand up, could not. For a moment Holmes feared the scene that had taken place in Watson's practice in Kensington would repeat itself (at least this time Watson was already half lying down and could not crack his head hitting a wall). It did not.

Watson blinked before he found his voice, "What the blazed are you doing back in England? When did you return?"  
Compared to his general state of failing health, Holmes was surprised to hear that his Watson's voice was as strong and clear as he remembered.

He found that his own voice failed him. His joy of finally seeing his dear friend coupled with the terrorr he felt at having to lose him to this deadly illness left him speechless for a moment.

Watson did not wait patiently for an answer, "What do you think you are doing in here? I don't want to risk infecting you! I cannot believe the doctor let you in here," he was positively ranting. The rant was out of character, but the concern oh so familiar.

His unexpected return had shocked his friend - again. Maybe he should have sent a message before barging into Watson's sickroom. He had contemplated doing so, but the desire to see Watson as soon as possible had won.

Holmes approached him, but Watson obvioulsy disagreed with that move. He did not want to risk Holmes's health. How and why he returned, how the mission had turned out – all of these questions were secondary.

"What do you think you are doing? Your brother informed you of my disease. Stay away, the risk-", he was cut off when Holmes lost the feeble grip on his temper, still strained by his confrontation with Mycroft two days ago.

"I do not care and Mycroft has told me **nothing **of this," Holmes seethed.

Watson sighed. Secretly, he had suspected that Mycroft Holmes would not inform his friend. Finding out must have been more than just a shock.

"It would have distracted you-" he was cut off again.

"Do you think me so uncaring? I demanded information, no matter how bad or distracting. It was one of the conditions we had agreed upon when I agreed to take on this mission. I would have wanted to know, I-" Holmes was rambling as much as Watson had been. He could not continue. He walked further into the room instead.

"Holmes, don't-" Watson gave up reasoning with his friend. He was glad that Holmes was back, he had doubted whether they would have ever seen each other again. He thanked God for this small gift in the midst of the doom that had befallen him.

Holmes sat himself on a stool near the bed but not too near, aquiescenting in his own way with Watson's plea, not wanting to upset him further even as he wished to shake his friend's had in greeting, squeeze his shoulder, any contact at all. At the same time he was afraid because touching his frail Boswell would make this situation all the more _real_.

They studied each other for a long moment.

Holmes broke the silence first.  
"Are you in pain?" He hoped his Watson would get the best care available. If he found that he did not, he would see to it that he did. That much he could do at least.

"Not much," said Watson. Holmes knew him well enough to see that this was not the entire truth. Holmes's thirst for knowledge was driving him to ask more questions.

"How long have you been ill?" _How much time have you left?_

Watson did not answer that question directly, knowing what Holmes really meant.  
"For a while," his smile was sad.  
It tugged at something inside of Holmes's chest. It hurt. Despite being so very ill and tired, Watson also seemed to be very much alive, sunlight highlighting the grey in his otherwise still rather reddish brown hair. Holmes was only too aware how short-lived the time with his dearest friend was.

"I might have been infected years ago," Watson continued, "It could have lain dormant. Transmission, unfortunately, is very easy. So you should take care," another stern look followed.

But the former detective still wanted a precise answer.

"How long have you been ill, doctor," Holmes could be stern as well. Being called a doctor eliced another smile. It felt bitter on Watson's lips.

"It started a couple of months after you left. I thought it was pneumonia. I was wrong."

Nearly two years already. Most did not live nearly that long and Watson had suffered major strains on his health when he had been a young man.

And now this. Again he had been alone in his time of need. Watson picked up on his line of thought as he had done so often in the past.

"I choose to heal people, to serve my country this way. You serve England differently. But with no less danger," Watson said these words, trying to convince Holmes that he did not blame him. He reached over, hesitantly, his medical instincts screaming at him to keep the distance, not sure if he could dare to touch Holmes who appeared to be deep in thought.

Holmes decided for him, grabbing his hand and squeezing it, rare tears in his eyes. Watson's smile, genuine this time, almost broke him.

"We're both still here, Holmes."

Holmes nodded. Watson's smile turned into a rather impish grin.

"So…tell me of your adventures, old fellow. And please, before you visit me again…get rid of this abomination of a beard."

Holmes was surprised when he found himself laughing.

Fin.


End file.
